


Wearing it Well

by moodymarshmallow



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 11:33:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow





	Wearing it Well

Fenris wore firelight well, and shadow suited him. The latter softened his jagged edges while flame made warm the harsh white, and when lightning struck outside, he lit up with it, all hollows of cheekbone and stark lyrium on olive skin. Then he slid into the shadow again, stalking though he was still, forest green eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance, remembering more than seeing.

But despite his contradictions, despite the sharp glint from offcast metal gauntlets, despite taut muscles and rigid spine, he was warm, and he was soft, and most importantly: he was there. There had been no guarantees of that, not last year, not when stepping back into the rhythm of relationship was clumsy and difficult, no matter how many meaningful words and reassurances there were.  _Nothing could be worse than the thought of living without you_  was a pretty thing to say, but putting it into practice was different.

They moved slow like seasons, wind chapped lips brushing elongated ears, long, scarred fingers rubbing stubbled jaw, laying heads on thighs or flat chests, using one blanket, and curling up by the fire while the rain outside beat on the building, sounding like the footfalls of an army.   
  
Hawke was afraid of thunder—he never admitted it, but Fenris knew fear; he could feel it, like a change in the ozone, like a sinking of the stomach, like waking in the middle of the night in a cold sweat with your lungs on fire—oh, he knew it. So when it started to rain, when it  _really_  started to rain, when the sky turned sick and dark and the windows started to rattle, Fenris was there for him. He was warmth and comfort, no matter how unused to those things he happened to be. He was damp hair and cool skin, soaking armor peeled off and hung over a chair to dry as he sat by the fire, pretending he was there for himself, that he was lonely, or desperate, or needy, or anything that could let Hawke lie to himself enough to think that Fenris wasn’t there to tighten his grip every time lightning struck.

He wore the firelight well; it gleamed on him when he cast his eyes down as Hawke moved to kiss him, then when he closed them, parting his lips, and moving atop his saviour, his lover, his Hawke, hands on his neck, in his hair, over his broad shoulders and up his cheek. Lust was underneath, boiling, smoldering, but not breaching the surface. There were words for what this was instead; Fenris knew them, he saw them in the books that Hawke had taught him to read, but they were unfamiliar in his mouth, so he didn’t use them.   
  
It was fine when the fire died because they were meant for the darkness, for the secret hours of the night. When the rain hushed and the moon crept from behind clouds, casting silver slivers through thin windows, it no longer felt clumsy or difficult; and Fenris knew it, like he knew the taste of his own mouth, like he knew the taste of Hawke’s.   
  
He wore him well.


End file.
